Upsetting the Applecart
by SpaceAnJL
Summary: I think everyone has to write YAHF for this fandom, don't they? It's like a rite of passage, or something.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N - I loved the original concept of 'Buffy', but I had rather lost interest by the time they blew up the High School - after two seasons, every U.S show seems to get hit with the Idiot Stick. (The less said about the comics, the better.) And frankly, I never liked Angel. At all. All that broody, whiny manpain would be bad enough, without being a walking corpse with a history of rape, murder and torture. And then he started hanging round a fifteen year old girl. You'll excuse me if I don't find that romantic. Me, I'm all about snarky, smart guys with an actual pulse. Magic and/or weaponry, always a plus._

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A wasted figure of a man in a prison cell, forsaken, half out of his mind with torture and privation. The bullet waiting for him will almost be a blessing. He presses shaking hands together, gashed palms bleeding sluggishly, cracked lips moving without sound. A last, desperate prayer, as a wavering thumb marks each eyelid.

There are many Trickster _Gods_ and _Lords_ of Chaos. None of them happen to be listening.

Time is fluid, to one who is everything and nothing. The entity considers.

A world overrun with demons, starved of magic, drab and miserable. People maimed irreparably, mentally, physically, spiritually. Others dead, discarded, forgotten. Everything is grim, gritty, grey and depressing. And the cause of all of this is so very pitiful. Ruin and horror to everyone around them, their self-absorbed stupidity making them prey to the manipulations of Light and Dark - and that which lurks between.

No. This will not stand.

Sometimes, if you want something done, you have to do it yourself.

Opportunity. A night of transition, of magic, where the line blurs between the living and the dead, between worlds and seasons and cycles. That one impudent, imprudent, oddly faithful soul, as yet unbroken, in this time, in this place.

A spark of consciousness. Eyes open, lungs draw breath. A mouth smiles.

Showtime.

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"Giles?"

A red-head in a miniskirt peers round the curtain, followed by a tall, tweedy man in glasses.

"Janus. A Roman mythical god."

"What does this mean?"

"Primarily, the division of self. Male and female, light and dark..."

"Chunky and creamy...oh, no, sorry, that's peanut butter." Ethan saunters out of the corner. Giles' face hardens.

"Willow, get out of here, now."

"But..."

"Now." Giles barks, without taking his eyes off the man in front of him. She flees. "Hello, Ethan."

"Hello, Ripper."

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Even with his memories of what a vicious bastard Ripper could be, Ethan is still slightly surprised when Giles actually hits him. Though not as surprised as both of them are, when a cheerful female voice says,

"If you two boys are going to fight, you could at least take your shirts off."

Ethan, still wheezing on the floor, finds himself looking at a pair of dainty little sandals, peeking out from under dark drapery. Giles recognises a genuine Greek chiton when he sees one, but the accent is pure BBC.

"I'd have been here sooner, but I manifested over in the bowling alley, had to take a taxi." Looks down at the startled man at her feet. "You don't have to grovel, darling, I'm already suitably impressed by your devotions."

"Um..." Ethan cautiously pulls himself over onto his elbows, wipes his bleeding lip.

The interruption has thrown Giles off on his rampage. Has Ethan managed to drag someone else into his sick games? She looks the type, an English Rose grown wild, Ethan had always had a knack for corruption – except the mage looks just as bewildered as he feels. Not an accomplice, then, another innocent temporarily possessed – gods above, hadn't the pillock learnt anything?

"Madam, I don't know who you are..." He begins, slightly wary.

"Well, Ethan, in his desire to have some Halloween fun, summoned up a little chaos." She holds up her hands, strikes a pose. "Ta-da."

"Janus?" Ethan practically squeaks.

The woman folds her arms, looking insulted, and prods him with one small foot.

"If you weren't quite so phallocentric in your thinking, you might remember your cosmogony."

She swings the bag on her shoulder around, displays the stylized Tao embroidered on it, the dots replaced by a pentagon, and an apple...

"Oh, bloody hell." Giles blurts, fractionally ahead of Ethan's stifled whimper.

"By Jove, I think he's got it." Squints down her nose. "I do like this accent. Must be because I hijacked Ethan's spell." A naughty little grin. "It seems that he has a thing for prim bookish types with a wild streak, who knew?"

"Er...what are you planning to do?" The Goddess of Chaos, loose on the Hellmouth. He's sweating sick at the thought.

"Basically, stop you beating this twit to a pulp, and dispense some advice." She unslings the bag from her shoulder, rummages in it, and both men tense, but all she does is pull out a tissue and kneel down. Ethan blinks at the pleasant, impishly pretty face, as she gently dabs at his lip. "Honestly, baiting Ripper? Not too smart. You _know_ that he doesn't mess around."

"And he claimed that side of him was long gone..."

"Yes, well, you always brought out the worst in each other, didn't you?" She looks back up at Giles. "I'll keep this quick and simple. You should stake that brooding tosser – your Slayer is an impressionable teenage idiot, and he's a complete creep. Research that soul curse, and damn fast. Willow has a talent for magic, but the same level of self-control as you two had at that age, so keep an eye on that. Xander needs someone to treat him like a young man and not a burden, teach him to use a sword. And you..." Ethan's smirk freezes when she pokes him with a forefinger. "Rupert is right about this harming the innocent. Granted, there are some horrible little brats out there who absolutely love the whole claws and slime thing, but it's time to end it..."

"Do we have to?" Wilts under the Look she gives him. "Break the bust." He says, with resignation.

Giles turns, shatters the statue.

Xander finds himself clutching a plastic pistol, Spike gets a faceful of Slayer. Willow gasps back to life on a distant porch.

(Drusilla clutches the sides of her head and shrieks, as the world _warps_.)

This is Ethan's chance to slip away, to disappear into the night. Save his own skin, as he always does. Except that the woman has given a little squeak and crumpled down on top of him. He's not quite such a bastard as to drop her in a heap, not when she has saved him from a beating, and her presence in his arms does make it less likely that Ripper will take a swing at him again. He stares warily at the tall figure of his erstwhile friend.

"You'd best go round up your lost lambs, Rupert."

Giles glares back.

"And leave you to slink away without consequence?"

"I do have _some_ principles. I shall be seeing this charming lady to safety."

Giles dithers, but his duty to his Slayer and her little friends over-rides his concern for a random stranger.

"If I catch up with you again..."

"Yes, yes, you'll thrash me for the wretched miscreant that I am. Go."

With a last hard stare (and how has nobody seen through the tweed and glasses to the scary bastard beneath?) Giles does.

Ethan breathes a sigh of relief, and looks down at the woman wilting in his arms. As it is, she's rather lovely, and if he'd met her in a bar, he would have turned on the charm. He can certainly do the Good Samaritan act...

One eye opens, peers up at him.

"Well, _that_ was a head rush."

Still British, definitely amused. Ethan begins to get a bad feeling.

"You seem remarkably composed about events." He says, gingerly. She gets to her feet, smoothing her dress and peering down over her shoulder.

"Darling, I'm delighted. I dressed as an ordinary human being for Halloween, in the hope that it would take. And here I am."

It takes a moment or two for the significance of that to sink in.

"Er..." Ethan swallows hard. Oh, bloody, bloody hell.

She grins cheerfully at him.

"Be careful what you wish for, indeed, follower of chaos. Sometimes, chaos might choose to come and follow you, instead." Links an arm through his. "Now, you were going to see me to safety. Maybe we could get a hotdog on the way? I'm starving."


	2. Chapter 2

People are wandering the streets of Sunnydale, parents and children searching for each other, still looking dazed and shell-shocked by whatever has possessed them. For most of them, it will be a blurry memory by the morning, a child's nightmare, born of too much sugar and lurid television. A few are buzzed, laughing, exhilarated by the experience, whilst some are indeed disconsolate at the loss of claws and working rayguns. One small boy is still hopefully whacking at his big sister with a plastic lightsaber.

The couple at the corner table of the diner watch the passing show. He has no obvious costume, though the deep red shirt enhances his strong features and dark colouring, gives him a faintly Mephistophelean air. Her dress is timeless in its simple, classical lines, only her hairstyle bringing certain antique statues to mind.

"So," Ethan clears his throat, "er, what do I call you?"

"Eris." She smiles. "It is my name, after all. I have a passport and everything. I'm...Eris Nixon, born 23rd May, British citizen."

"Lovely." He says, faintly. "And what do you intend to do now?"

Eris rests her chin in her hands and flutters her eyelashes at him.

"_You_ summoned me, darling. I'm all yours." Laughs at his face. "Abject terror isn't a flattering response for a girl, you know. Don't panic, I didn't come here to hurt you. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"I'm just trying to get to grips with the whole 'accidentally summoned a goddess' situation."

"It wasn't an accident." For one moment, her eyes are fathomless dark. "It's a little complicated, because the concepts just don't translate well into limited dimensions with linear temporal progression... Put simply, future you called for help, but I've turned up _here_ to prevent the situation you were calling about. Now, full-on god-level powers striding the earth are a liability. Honking great disturbance in the Force, basically. They encourage...other things to get grandiose ideas. But one ordinary human with a headful of memories doesn't trip any alarms." Looks down at herself. "At the moment, I am simultaneously about three hours old, timeless, and...thirty-something? It's a bit confusing."

"You don't look a day over twenty-five." Ethan chances, and gets a smile in return.

"I needed a doorway, a moment when I could enter this world, without drawing too much attention. This was ideal. And because the spell was broken violently, and not revoked by the caster..." Spreads her hands.

"...Fragments remain." Ethan can appreciate the subtlety of it. He sniggers darkly. "Oh, Ripper. I may have to stick around to see the aftermath."

"I certainly hope so. I may require your assistance. Various morons have their own sick little plans in motion, which end up screwing over this reality and causing the loss of all magic."

"I can see why that might put a crimp in my lifestyle..."

"You didn't live to see it. You got shot through the head in a military prison."

"Oh." His coffee turns bitter on his tongue, and he puts the cup down. A small warm hand covers his.

"I don't intend for that to happen. Think of me as...your guardian angel." The smile she gives him is anything but angelic. Ethan makes an undignified little noise deep in his throat.

"You want to pull it all down. Change the future."

"Yes." She tilts her head. "Too many people are playing silly buggers, and frankly, chess has never been my game. I much prefer dice."

The chill down Ethan's spine does not abate. He's not sure if it's fear or excitement.

"Why me? I mean, Ripper is the do-gooder with the passion for atonement."

"But what I need is a nasty, sneaky bastard with very few scruples."

"Oh." Ethan processes this. "Well, if you put it like that." The chance to wreck the plans of the appointed guardians of order. How could he turn that opportunity down? He smirks. "I am, as ever, the devoted servant of chaos."

"Well, you can't keep calling yourself the son of Chaos." She pulls a little face. "Far too Oedipal, darling."

Laughter is startled out of him.

A small part of his mind wonders about running. It is instantly clubbed to the ground and given a damn good shoeing by the rest of him. Craven instincts of self-preservation are losing out to libido.

"So, I called on you for help, and now here you are." Takes a breath. "Have I sold you my soul?"

"I don't deal in souls." She grins. "You _did_ make promises of faithful service and the like, but I think that was just sweet-talking to get my attention."

"I'll admit that using prayer as a pick-up line had never been a thought of mine."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Really?" It comes out faintly hopeful. She _is_ just his type. Quietly pretty, in a very English way, curves rather than lean athleticism, a brunette with a roseleaf complexion. (Ripper had always favoured exotic beauties, but Ethan's tastes were informed by a boyhood staring wistfully after the girls from the local grammar school, all cool confidence, with their shiny hair and knee-socks.)

The low sweep of that neckline, the unadorned column of her throat – it's a standing invitation to the local nightlife, all that soft, unblemished skin. Undo those shoulder clasps, and the whole dress would just fall off... Ethan's fingers itch, and he catches himself. No. Bad things happen to men who profane goddesses. There might even be...smiting. He shifts in his chair.

And then Eris looks up through her eyelashes at him, and gives him a wicked little smile.

Ethan decides that he can probably live with some smiting.

In fact, Eris is quite amused at the form she has found herself in. Grins to herself – he's lucky she didn't manifest in a Catholic schoolgirl's uniform, she'd have given both men heart-attacks. Poor Rupert is already strait-jacketing himself into a stereotype, rendering himself into a sexless authority figure, and deeply miserable about it. Twenty years of suppressing everything individual about himself, to conform to a standard he'll never be able to attain, set by people who aren't worth his time. He needs to remember how to have fun. Without the whole demon-raising delinquency bit, of course. Just as Ethan needs to have someone to yank him back from being truly stupid on occasion – he has a problem with anticipating consequences. Witness the fact that he now has an avatar of Chaos flirting with him.

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Rupert Giles contemplates his glass of Scotch, flexes his slightly bruised hand. In the background, Clapton plays softly.

Ethan bloody Rayne. Everything he never wanted to think about again, in one insolently grinning package. He's the symbol of everything Giles is ashamed of, all the pieces of his past.

It hadn't been all bad, that was the worst thing. The heady excitement, the rush of power, nights of excess. They'd been young and stupid and arrogant, thought they were invincible, until it all went to pieces, in a welter of fear and pain and recriminations. Phil had already been in the squat, always with a coterie of dazed girls passing through. Tom was there because of Deidre, mainly, and she was there because she wanted to hit back at her parents, acting out against the stifling boredom of suburbia. Giles almost has to choke back a sob of laughter at the idea – to be resentful of quiet normality seems unimaginable to him now. Randall...god, Randall, if he hadn't died from the demon, it would probably have been from a needle in his arm. If you could smoke it, shoot it, or snort it, Randall was in there. He'd been the Money in their little group. The Giles family weren't poor, but Randall... Ethan, with his glib tongue and sly grin, evading questions about his past, always ready with a new idea. They had dared each other to new heights, or new lows. He'd had to be so much harder, rougher, more vicious, to shake off the name, the weight of expectation – those had been his own words thrown back at him tonight, his own savage condemnation of his future. Looks down at the jacket slung over the arm of the chair, and tosses back his drink. Snivelling and tweed-clad indeed. He'd _wanted_ to hit Ethan, and it had felt far too good.

Idiot children, playing with magic. And twenty years on, that stupid berk is still standing back and watching the wreck. He has a slight pang of conscience, he hopes that that woman is okay, and that she is giving Ethan hell, however he's trying to explain himself.

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Outside, the night is a symphony of sirens. Ethan closes the curtain against the world, turns back into the room. The hotels and motels of Sunnydale are a veritable hunting ground for all sorts of predators, there was no way he was going to let Eris stay on her own. He's trying to think of it as the promptings of the atrophied remnants of his conscience, but he's aware that far baser instincts are cheering him on.

Normally, there's been a whole awkward dance to get here, sometimes dinner, usually drinks. Ethan, unaccustomedly sober, gives a tentative smile. Eris lifts her chin, a gesture half challenge, half invitation, and grins back. It's enough.

He was right about the shoulder clips. The entire gown slithers to the floor in a whisper. Eris simply laughs against his mouth, and continues to unbutton his shirt.

"You don't hang about, do you?"

"Ripper would suspect me of seducing you with sorcery."

"Well, he's not far wrong..." Eris slides her arms up round his neck. "Big bad warlock."

"You hijacked my spell."

"I needed a focus. A mind to give me form."

"And a very nice form it is, too." Ethan leers, pauses. He has had a few shape-shifting bed partners over the years, not always with foreknowledge – it is a wise idea to find out beforehand if what you go to sleep next to is still going to look the same in the morning. Call him old-fashioned, but he does actually prefer standard human female, in the singular... "You're not going to suddenly turn into some tentacled Lovecraftian horror, are you?"

"Why, would you like me to?"

"No!" He yelps, settles down again when she laughs at him.

"I'm just a person, now. I can probably go toe to toe with you in terms of magecraft, but...eh, I'm only mortal."

"So how do you think you are going to enjoy that?"

She looks at the man in front of her, the wicked eyes, the sensual curl of his mouth.

"I think there may be compensations."

His hands are dark against her creamy skin, and she is warm, soft, and entirely, happily human beneath his touch. Any smiting is purely consensual.

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A battered Spike stumbles in through the doorway of the hideaway, cursing the bloody Slayer. Forgets all about lighting his cigarette when he sees Drusilla crouched in the corner, rocking slightly and burbling about apples.

"It's all changing, twisting and screaming in my head." She clutches her skull. "The magician looked too long into the Abyss, and it winked at him."

"Easy, now, pet." Spike gathers her up.

"Illumined by flashes of lightning, we'll be..." Drusilla giggles, even though her eyes are still bright with fear. "No dawn to break, and no twilight to fall, she's cleverer than all the tricksy voices in our heads, because she's not real, either."

"No other voices here, luv. Now, come and have a lie down, and I'll fetch you a snack. Bound to be one of those little morsels not made it back to mummy an' daddy."

"Too late now. Bad little butterfly has flapped her wings, and she'll blow us all away." She turns tragic eyes towards him. "The Whirlwind will be reaped."

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Eris runs her fingers gently through his hair.

"You prayed to Chaos, before the end." Her voice is very quiet. "Everyone else got the big hero scenes, so many second chances, offers of redemption and absolution, all their sins forgiven. And they left you in a cell to rot. But you're mine, Ethan Rayne, and I chose to alter your fate."

"Lucky me."

The sleepy murmur comes out in a rather smug tone, and slightly muffled by her breasts, and Eris laughs softly. She will never let this wickedly grinning man end up as that wasted, frightened creature who had called so desperately for anyone to help him.

She knows exactly who and what Ethan Rayne is. Not a Champion of Light, certainly, he's devious and self-serving and not always trustworthy. He isn't evil, though, just a bit morally deficient. He's smart, and funny, with a dry, mordant wit. And he's a lot of fun in bed. He'll do very nicely.

He's drifting off to sleep, his face half-pressed into her cleavage, all untidy dark hair and that ridiculous nose. There were some surprising muscles under that shirt, he's in good shape for a man his age. Eris' fingers hover over, but do not touch, the tattoo on one bicep. That will have to be dealt with.

She grins into the darkness, an expression which would severely frighten any number of beings. She doesn't need anybody to be her Champion, she fights her own battles, in her own way. Her acolyte has opened the way for her, and the world had best be wary. One little pebble can start an avalanche.


	3. Chapter 3

The 'kitchenette' of the motel room is a crappy little two ring hot plate balanced atop a tiny 'fridge, but since Ethan doesn't bother to cook for himself, it suffices. He's grown quite fond of a good breakfast burrito, though he hasn't gone so native that he'll forgo his morning cuppa. He yawns, rubs his eyes as he waits for the kettle to boil.

A major Working takes a lot out of him, the last time he felt like this was after a three day bender in Tangier. (Absinthe, hashish, summoning a succubus...it had been part of a whole rock band entourage thing.) He can still feel the after-effects humming through his blood. Not the dirty, sluggish feel of the Hellmouth energies, or the thin, bloodless prissiness of 'Light' magic, but something wild and fierce, barely held in check. You didn't control Chaos, you attempted to persuade it to go along with your plans. You couldn't command, you had to entreat, to coax. To seduce.

He looks across the room. There's a very definite possibility that he has that the wrong way around, of course. The backlash of his spellwork seems to be that he has had a pretty woman announce her intention of changing the future to save his life, and then drag him into bed. He's trying to find the downside of that.

Ethan is aware that he isn't exactly a prize. His skills as a mage aren't too shabby, but he is still a middle-aged man living out of a suitcase. Why anyone should go out of their way to save him or help him, he can't fathom. But if what she wants him for is to help her cause chaos, that's fine by him.

He's looked through her bag, of course. Some small feminine debris, hairbrush, nailfile, tissues, lip-gloss. A pair of sun-glasses. A British passport, which is indeed in the name of Eris Nixon. A wallet, with a couple of bank cards, and even a British driving licence. All seemingly authentic, but curiously unworn. There are no pictures in the wallet, nothing to give a sense of personality. All of that rests in her vivid little face, her laugh, and her eyes.

She might just be crazy. And if she _is_ crazy – then he did it. He's responsible. Except - nobody knows his middle name. He hasn't used since he...left...home. She'd whispered it into his ear. She could equally be something very nasty wearing a human shell; waking up this morning with everything intact doesn't entirely rule that out. He has always managed to deal, usually by running away, with most things that might want his wallet, his life or his soul. (His virtue...well, that's mostly negotiable.) He could still run. But where would he run to? And does he want to?

Because – if she is who she says she is, this is big. Pull-the-world-off-course big. Mischief on an unprecedented scale. Ethan had always thought that he would hide under the bed if the Call of Destiny came looking for him. The problem was, the Call had sauntered up to him in deliciously strappy little sandals and a saucy grin, and he'd been sucker-punched. Power and the chance to use it, and the price of it - is apparently to use it. He can't say no. Doesn't want to say no. Isn't sure he ever had the choice.

He almost certainly has the incarnation of the Goddess of Chaos, Strife and Discord, naked in his bed.

Ethan gives a very dirty grin. Go him.

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Eris wakes to her first morning in Sunnydale to someone nibbling gently at her neck.

"I'm not sure that biting is something to encourage around here..."

"You didn't complain last night."

Eris had had the least sliver of a worrisome thought, that maybe she would wake up alone this morning. She wouldn't totally blame him, it was a lot to drop on someone. She'd been counting on curiosity to keep his attention - though breasts seemed to work pretty well in that respect, as well. (And wasn't it a surprise to find that Ethan was a cuddler?) Right now, he looks thoroughly disreputable, heavy eyes, shadowed jaw, a filthy smirk on his face, insinuating himself back into the bed, apparently happy to wrap himself around her.

Ah, well, he can always make more tea later.

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"So?"

"So, what?"

"Are you going to tell me your plan, unravel the secrets of the future?"

"I can tell you some salient points, but every act of observation changes the thing observed. In time, events will be so far off course that my memories will no longer be useful." Eris grins. "Mainly, I'm going to wing it."

Ethan is leant back against the headboard, and Eris is leant back against him. There has been desultory talk of going out for breakfast, but neither of them seem inclined to disentangle their limbs just yet.

"Well, I'm going to avoid the shop for a day or so, keep well out of Rupert's way." Chin on her shoulder. "I'm sure we can find ways to keep each other amused, hmm?"

She captures a straying hand, kisses the end of his fingers, tucks the arm back round her.

"I was wondering about the shop, actually."

"You think I should keep it?"

"It might make a nice bookshop."

"A bookshop?" He hadn't expected that.

"The arty, intellectual kind, that can acquire some of the more esoteric volumes for various customers?"

Ethan catches on, grins gleefully.

"I could make Rupert pay full retail price for his obscure grimoires. Hah."

"That's a distinct improvement on 'I shall sell the 'Necronomicon' to aspiring megalomaniacs.'" Not that she would let him do that. "At least you'd have advance warning of which particular idiots think that summoning demons for fun and profit sounds like a good idea."

Her particular idiot coughs, wriggles uncomfortably.

"You know, I'm not exactly over-burdened by possessions." Indicates the room. "I've a few crates in a storage locker in London, and that's about it. Unlike dear Rupert, I don't have the luxury of a wealthy family, or a prestigious organisation to support me. Settling down has never been part of my agenda..."

"Everything _I_ own is in my bag. Or on the floor. I'm even going to have to borrow your toothbrush this morning." Stretches in a way that Ethan thoroughly approves of. "I might nick one of your less horrible shirts, too..." (It has been a long while since Ethan had anything approaching a steady girlfriend, but there are some things hardwired into the male psyche. Losing half your wardrobe, and having the other half disparaged, seems terribly familiar. And a cold, creeping doom starts to settle over him...) "...I'll need to do some shopping." Eris finishes.

"I can't take the chance of running into Ripper until he's calmed down." Ethan says, quickly. "Or his little Slayer, for that matter."

"Oh, she had a late night, cuddling up to that vampire she thinks she's in love with." Distaste clear in her voice. Ethan blinks.

"I thought that was just some twisted Dark World rumour. What the hell is Rupert thinking, encouraging that idiocy?"

"Trying not to alienate his Slayer. He's found a purpose, she's found a father figure. She's just being a very stupid sixteen, but yes, Rupert should know better. The walking corpse is _really_ old enough to know better. I mean, even if he was human, she's jailbait."

"Um..."

"You are well over the age of consent, darling."

"I was more concerned about the fact that you appear to be considerably younger than myself."

"I look like a trophy girlfriend, not a felony. And if you feel the need to get a flashy sports car, too, I'm all for it. No, poor Rupert is well under the thumb, he doesn't know how to head this off without her going all teenage woe 'nobody understands me' at him."

"He always did have a horror of crying women..."

"Useful to know. I'll weep on him if I want to freak him out. I'm hoping that some sage advice at the right time will get his head back in the game."

Ethan begins to have some slightly twitchy thoughts. He'd lost more than one girl he'd spent the evening chatting up to Ripper, back in the day.

"I thought you weren't concerned about courting his assistance." He's suddenly aware that he's tightened his grip in a slightly possessive fashion, tries surreptitiously to loosen up. From the way Eris is smirking at him, he's not being very successful.

"I bet you're dreadful at poker."

"I cheat."

"He's your friend, I thought you might like him alive and well."

Friends? They haven't been friends for years. Not since Rupert turned tail and mewed himself up in the life he'd sworn he'd never return to, left Ethan in the wreckage, running from Eyghon and the fury of the establishment. If it had been Ethan left there, ripped to pieces, cold and staring...well, his family had probably sat shiva for him years before, and junkies died in the backstreets of London all the time with barely a murmur, but the police turned out in force for the son of an aristocrat. So did the Press. He stills his instinctive snort, as the implications reach him.

"Rupert dies?" Died, will die, the mechanics confuse him.

"Another monumental idiocy I'll be trying to head off." Then she kisses him. "Don't fret, you are still my very favourite badass sorcerer."

"Good." Ethan accepts his doom. "You want to go into business with me, then?"

"Oh, I think having us on the Hellmouth will be very...educational."

"Golden Apple Books?"

"That's a little on the nose, darling."

Ethan's expression could pass for innocence in a bad light.

"Well, apples are the fruit of knowledge."

"So what are you, the nasty little serpent?"

"There is nothing little about my serpent, madam." He says with great dignity, then pounces.


	4. Chapter 4

There are purely human criminals in Sunnydale, too, and much of the damage left in the aftermath of Halloween has nothing to do with possessed children and everything to do with idiot teenagers. Remnants of eggs, flour, paint and toilet paper litter the town. There's even evidence of a few small fires. Luckily, Ethan had emptied the cash register on the way out, because the shop has been trashed. Giles hadn't expected to find Ethan haunting the scene of his crime, though he had called by the next day, found nothing but a mocking card.

Still, a week or so later, when he notices the door open, and movement inside, he heads straight over. The desire to punch Ethan has calmed, but not abated.

However, the figure sorting though the debris is manifestly not Ethan. She tosses a handful of broken plastic into a box, turns to the door.

"...oh, hello. Again."

It's the woman from Halloween, though now she is dressed in jeans and t-shirt, her hair in a pony-tail.

"Sorry, we weren't exactly formally introduced before." She grins at him, holds out a hand, "Eris Nixon."

"Rupert Giles." He shakes the proffered hand, then blinks. "...Eris?"

"Yes, it _is_ my name. Hence the Greek costume. However, jeans seem a better bet for everyday wear."

"Um, yes." Giles glances around, tries to think of an excuse for storming in. "Er...You're taking over the business?"

"I think Sunnydale could benefit from another bookshop. But I have to clear the junk out first, before I can measure up for the shelving." She discards another set of broken fairy wings. "Oddly enough, not too many costumes seem to have been returned. Are you here to bring something back?"

"Oh, uh, no. I was actually hoping to catch up with the previous owner."

"I can pass on a message." She gives a sunny expectant smile.

"..." Giles can't very well issue a threat by proxy. "Do you have a forwarding address? We're old friends."

"Hmm. Wasn't he the man you were punching in the face?" A shrug. "It was a very strange evening, though."

"Um, yes, indeed." He's not sure how to phrase it. "A lot of people were acting...somewhat out of character. You...remember?"

"Oh, I remember a few things. Like the fact that you are a southpaw."

Watches him cough, fiddle with his glasses. She's aware that she shouldn't tease him, but really, it's so much fun.

"Quite...If I may ask, what made you choose Sunnydale?" Genuine curiosity.

"Probably, much the same reasons as yourself." A grin. "One can have too much of the British climate. I felt like a change, and I found myself curiously drawn to this location. It seems like such a nice town."

She can _see_ him fighting with that one.

"Well, er, Ms Nixon, I wish you luck in your venture."

"I hope to see you here again when we open. I'll pass on your regards to Mr Rayne." Sees him out of the door with a cheery wave, and then turns back. "You can come out now, he's gone."

Ethan sticks his head round the curtain from the back room.

"I would have leapt to your defence if necessary."

"I know, darling. But Rupert doesn't know that he has any reason to worry about me." Narrows her eyes. "You, on the other hand, if you've eaten my bearclaw..."

"I would never get between a woman and her pastry." Holds up his hands, and backs off. "I got coffee, too, rather than whatever that is they claim to be tea."

"I can't decide whether the inability to make a decent cuppa is a political statement, or wilful ignorance." Eris hops up to sit on the table, and makes grabby little hands. "Did you get the change-of-use paperwork sorted, too?"

"Yes. For a goddess of Chaos, you are quite terrifyingly organised."

"You have to know all the rules before you can break them properly." Coffee and donut acquired, she swings her feet, and smirks at him. "Also, I know how to delegate."

Ethan, mouth full with his own donut, gives her a squinty look of suspicion. Eris does her best to look sweet and innocent and harmless. It's vaguely terrifying how convincing it is.

It's been a couple of weeks, and his life is in, well, chaos. Despite the shopping trips, Eris still takes his shirts, his t-shirts, even his socks. The bathroom has acquired various strange feminine things, floral-smelling soap, talcum powder. Random undergarments hang off the towel-rail. They sit up late in bed, watching stupid films, sketching plans for the shop on the lid of pizza boxes, quick and dirty business plans drafted on the fly, and a proposed logo which makes her laugh – the apple has acquired a bookworm, with a wicked little smirk. There are slow, lazy mornings, sometimes breakfast in, when he'll watch Eris make omelettes, sometimes a late brunch out. (Sometimes, the remains of the cold pizza, and not getting out of bed at all.) He's actually cautiously happy.

So, of course, that's when the dreams start again.

00000000

Ethan twists up out of the nightmare of Randall's death, flames and screams. He doesn't have to explain himself, hunched over, forehead to knees, shaking and sweaty. Eris rests a gentle hand on the back of his neck until his breathing calms, and then she just holds him. Ethan allows himself the fragile comfort. He doesn't delude himself that it is a guilty conscience. There are plenty of things in his past that should make a man wake in a cold sweat, that fail to trouble his sleep. This is a tangible threat.

"Hiding from a demon on a Hellmouth?"

"Slayer's here."

"Point."

Eris knows, of course she knows. He wonders if he has any secrets from her, finds that he doesn't much care at this moment. Even if she knows the worst of him, she's still here.

(She's told him some of what he would have done. He has to admit, if he'd known what Lurconis' tribute was, he would never have taken the gig. He also has to admit, that he carefully wouldn't have bothered asking.)

"After Randall...died, we knew it wasn't really over." He says, quietly. "None of us really kept in touch, you understand, we scattered to the winds, put our lives back together as best we could, looking over our shoulders all the time. We've always known, though..." His fingers creep up towards his arm, pull away. "Rupert had his precious Council to clean up after him, but the rest of us were on our own. Deidre went back to Mummy and Daddy, played the good girl, even married a stockbroker, though it didn't last. Philip was 'something in the City', too – he was far too greedy to have ever left the life behind." In the eighties, you could smell the sorcery hanging over the Square Mile, even through the usual psychic fog of London. The City would swallow the Hellmouth, and never even notice. "Tom was always more of a follower – he became a monk, of all things. Some off-beat sect in the wilds of Northumberland, all back to nature and eschewing the decadence of modern civilisation. Twenty years of living in a bare stone cell and mortifying the flesh might be good for the soul, but it's very bad for the body. He died, and somehow, that's when Eyghon found a way back. The dreams started." A late night call in New York, and how the hell Philip had found his number... a frenzied babble, Tom three weeks dead, and Deidre convinced she'd seen him in her garden, and now Dee gone, in what looked like a messy suicide.

Ethan stares up into the darkness for a long while after Eris has gone back to sleep. He'll have to talk to Rupert. Hopefully, without getting clobbered. He'd put Philip off on the phone, bailed without leaving an address. But Philip had been around the edges of the Dark World just as long, even if he moved in more rarified circles. There's every chance that he'll run here for the same reasons, either out of some attempt to warn Ru, or to throw somebody else, probably Ethan, into Eyghon's path. He and Ethan had never been each other's favourite person.

Unaware of the cooling corpse that is even now being loaded onto the coroner's wagon, he closes his eyes. He'll leave it until the weekend, less people around.

00000000

Eris looks up from her book catalogue, glances at her watch, frowning. Ethan had come limping back, muttering about being beaten up by teenage girls, sulked restlessly in front of the tv all afternoon, and now he's disappeared again. She does some quick calculations in her head, dates and events...

"Oh, bugger." She snatches up her bag, and heads for the store.

00000000

Buffy comes to, with an aching head, and a buzzing in her ears that resolves into voices.

"You didn't have to hit her." A female voice, sounding just like Giles when someone crumples a page.

"I panicked. I wasn't sure if she was going to go for the whole 'slay first, question later' thing. And since I have a demon hunting me, you'll forgive me if my nerves are on edge." Ethan.

Buffy becomes aware that her wrists and ankles are tied, which is not of the good. She tests the bonds, but obviously not cautiously enough.

"Oop, we have consciousness." Then, "Buffy? I do apologise for Ethan."

Buffy opens her eyes. Ethan is lurking behind a dark-haired woman, and looking noticeably _un_apologetic. She glares at him.

"Apology not accepted. I'm gonna paste him."

"Ah. Hmm." The woman pauses. "See what you mean." She's holding a knife. It's only a small, plain one, but a blade is a blade. Buffy goes tense, and wonders if she can snap the rope holding her wrists. The woman looks down. "Oh. Look, I was just going to cut the rope, but if you prefer to go for the burn, feel free."

She's not getting demon-y vibes off the woman, but hanging out with Mr Creepy isn't winning her any points. Still, she doesn't have any ink on her arms, so Buffy is going to go with 'semi-innocent bystander', and try and avoid the move to 'demon chow'. Ethan obviously thinks the same.

"I was trying to keep it away from you, too." He mumbles.

"But I'm not helpless." Eris sighs. _Now_, he decides to get chivalrous? Well, in his own twisted way. She reaches a hand up to his face, and kisses him. "You wanted to lure a demon into an already supernaturally strong body. No, darling, just...no. Horribly bad idea. And if I ever catch you trying to feed people to things again, then I'm going to get angry." Oddly, that actually sounds like a threat, even though her voice is calm. It certainly makes Ethan clam up.

"Hey, I'm glad you two are making with the smoochies and all, but there's something evil on the way here, and...luring it into _my_ body? What the hey now?" Buffy rattles the ropes angrily. Eris turns back to her.

"I _am_ sorry about him. He still thinks ethics is somewhere east of London." The ropes part under the knife. Buffy rolls to her feet, and stalks towards Ethan, who backs up, hands waving.

"Could we focus on...erk." The hard little fist catches him in the jaw.

"Hey! He might be an idiot, but he's my idiot, so could you please not punch him again? Thank you."

"Look, I don't know who you are..."

"My name's Eris."

"...but you should probably leave now."

"Not without Ethan. I don't trust you two to play well together." Folds her arms. "And I'm not completely useless in these situations. How are you planning on dealing with Eyghon?"

"Hit it 'til it bleeds seems to be the standard M.O." Ethan grumbles, checking his teeth.

"I'm the Slayer. I slay."

"And the fact that it's in the body of your friend?" Eris asks, gently. Buffy sets her jaw.

"Well, I'll just have to hold onto it until Giles gets here. _He'll_ know what to do." There's just a hint of uncertainty there, beneath the defiant jab. "Like I told your, um, boyfriend, you can hide until this is over."

"Sounds perfectly reasonable to me." Ethan says, attempting to steer Eris towards the back room, adds with only the slightest sarcasm. "I'll just put the kettle on, shall I? This could take a while."

"Not necessarily." Eris says, and pokes the point of her knife into his tattoo, chants a sharp phrase. Ethan's back arches, his mouth and eyes open wide in soundless shock.

(In his flat, Giles is momentarily felled by a vision, pain and flames and screams, Ethan's face twisted in startled agony. Flails up off the floor, scrabbles for the door.)

"Bloody hell, woman." Ethan unwelds his teeth, hand clapped over his bicep. "You stabbed me."

Buffy isn't against the idea of poking Ethan with sharp things, in principle, though she does think she should get a go, if she isn't allowed to punch him again. That looked like it hurt a lot more than a mere jab should have done. Plus, chanting not in English is rarely good.

"Okay, what was that?"

"Boosting the signal. Sorry, darling, but patience has never been my strong point."

"You could have warned me." Ethan moans.

"Where would be the fun in that?" Pries his fingers away to look. "It's only a scratch."

Buffy decides right then that Eris is probably more creepy than Ethan. Or maybe they are equally creepy, when they both turn their heads at the same moment to look towards the front door. And then she doesn't have time to worry about it, because the demon stalks in. It doesn't really look like Jenny at all any more, open bluish sores on the elongated face, all goaty features and sneer.

Things go a little screwy after that. Eyghon goes for Ethan, Buffy swings a table. Giles comes rushing in, trying to be noble, and then the room is suddenly full of people, including the black-clad form of Angel, lunging in an open-handed tackle.

Jenny, herself again, drops to the floor, her face slack with shock.

Angel's body twists and jerks as the demonic entities fight for control...

Eris holds both hands in front of her, the knife actually _hovering_ between them, chants again, a rapid yet measured cadence, something that sounds more Greek than Latin.

...The blade flies across the room, hard and straight, buries itself to the hilt in his chest. The shade of Eyghon howls into dusty oblivion. And Angel just has time to look pained and astonished, before he goes up in a pillar of blue-green flame.

(The Powers and Partners alike reel in shock, entities shriek with impotent rage as they are forever denied form and being, sucked into non-existence, possible futures folding and collapsing, entire realities negated at a stroke, scrolls of prophecy reduced to so much waste paper.)

A twisted lump of metal clatters to the floor amidst the fallen ashes.


	5. Chapter 5

Buffy's scream of anguish rings round the store, and then she is on Eris like a tiger, shaking the woman like a rag-doll.

"What did you do, you bitch!"

Eris, still punch-drunk from the backlash of the magic, pushes with helpless hands, no defence against Slayer strength. Giles has his arms full of a dazed Jenny. It's Ethan who acts, strides to grasp a handful of blonde hair, a move which causes Buffy to let go in sheer surprise, before she knocks him flying across the room. Eris prudently ducks round behind the counter to join him. The other teens grab Buffy's arms before she can surge forward again, Willow babbling something about demons and dead bodies, Cordelia querulously demanding how a knife did that to a vamp, Xander trying to talk the raging Buffy down before she kills an actual person...

"SHUT UP!" It's Giles, a roar at the top of his voice.

It works, one startled instance of silence.

Giles is having difficulty processing it all. The woman from Halloween, the one who claimed to be opening a bookshop, has just vanquished a demon. (two demons?) He had _felt_ Eyghon depart. And now she's sheltering in Ethan's arms, face bloody and eyes wide with shock. It's only the fact that Buffy doesn't want to hurt her friends that is stopping her breaking free from Xander's surprisingly competent hold and attacking them.

How did it come to this, that his Slayer is threatening a human being over the unlife of a vampire?

Ethan is thinking much the same thing, only with more expletives.

"As much fun as this has not been, I think I'd like you all to leave now."

"We're not just leaving!" Rage and despair war on her face. "You were gonna feed me to the demon, and that psycho witch killed Angel!"

"Blessed blade. Wouldn't have killed a human." Eris croaks.

"And on your side, so far, we've got breaking and entering, trespass and assault." Ethan says. "So we'll call it even, yes? I'll sweep him up and put him in a jar for you to weep over. Now, get the hell out of my shop."

Buffy snarls at him, tenses to spring. Ethan and Eris brace themselves, clutching each other.

"Buffy, that is enough." Giles' voice comes out harsh. He takes a breath. "There isn't anything left for us here."

"But..."

"I said, enough."

All the fight goes out of her, and she sags against Xander with a wail, just a small, forlorn girl.

"C'mon, Buff. Let's get you home, 'kay?"

The boy awkwardly steers the now quietly crying Slayer towards the door. He seems considerably less bothered than the girls, turning his head quickly to look back, a rapid assessing glance. Gives a small sharp nod, and shepherds his little harem out. Giles exchanges one long look with Ethan.

He's just a middle-aged man with a tired face, worried and angry because his girlfriend is hurt. And that - makes two of them, Giles thinks, aware of Jenny shaking in his own arms. It's time to take care of the living. So he simply bows his head, and silently follows.

Eris is trying to staunch a bleeding nose. Ethan sighs, regards the wreckage of his clothing.

"I liked this shirt."

"Sorry." Her voice is a hoarse croak. "Incantation took it out of me a bit, or I could have tried to dodge."

"I wish Rupert the joy of her, vicious little bitch." Ethan says, savagely, lifting her chin to check her neck. "Blessed blade, indeed. That was the knife I use for opening boxes."

"I did so bless it." Wiggles her fingers. "Hoc cultro interficit daemones."

"..." Ethan translates that in his head, snorts with laughter. "We failed to exorcise Eyghon before."

"You needed the rite in Etruscan, not Latin. And the wielder of the blade has to be untainted by demonic influence." She holds up her hands. "Even then, it's kind of painful."

Palms and fingers are bright pink. Ethan squawks, cradling the damage in his own hands.

"Oh, bloody hell, woman."

"Just surface burns." She winces a bit. "It's going to make life awkward for a day or so, though."

"So you'll expect to be waited on hand and foot."

"You're my High Priest, it's your job." Eris grins wearily up, not too proud to lean on him.

They stand in the wreckage of the room, a drift of ashes round their feet. Ethan settles his arms more securely. He has never found himself feeling protective before, it's a weird sensation. Under the bruises, he's also giddy with relief. He's free of one long shadow. On his arm, the ink has faded, a twenty-year old amateur tattoo, nothing more than a reminder of youthful folly.

"What happened, before?"

"You got the tattoo on Buffy before Eyghon showed. And you tried to remove your own with acid. Because you're an idiot."

"The same sort of idiot that sets their damn hands on fire to banish a demon?"

"Hey, one possession demon, one vampiric spirit and one Romany curse. It was kind of crowded in that guy's head."

"Did he win, last time?"

"Yes, but the chance to alter things was right there." Shrugs. "Vampires are dead things that kill people. I don't care whether they draw like da Vinci, or play a mean game of kitten poker, underneath, they are predators. Curses can be broken, and he and that blonde dimwit were a trainwreck in waiting."

Ruthless, devious and opportunistic. Ethan gives a happy shiver. He _likes_ this woman.

"I've done business with vampires before." He confesses.

"Yes, but you have a flexible moral code, and an atrophied conscience."

"I'm not going to be doing with business with vampires again, am I?" Sad foreboding.

"No, dear."

"Demons?"

"Nothing that eats people." Pause. "Or kittens." Another pause. "Those nasty yappy little purse dogs are negotiable, though."

00000000

Jenny sits on her bed, stares blankly at her phone.

Rupert. She hadn't meant to get close to him. Not because he was gadje, but because – nobody could be that typically English. She had known there was something more to him, even beyond his duty as a Watcher. Known there was more to his hesitancy than an age gap, a cultural divide. And so it seems that he, too, has another face and a secret past.

His stumbled explanations and apologies...she couldn't deal with them right now. She simply feels - violated. She'd stood under her shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing her skin almost raw. That awful almost-blank space in her memory, cuts on her hands, bruises... She hadn't killed anybody, that is her only consolation. But coming up out of the darkness, to find herself being choked by _Him_...

What will she do, now that He is gone? If the curse bound Him, then it bound the Clan just as surely, a century of dedicated purpose.

Tonight, there are less monsters in the world than when the day dawned. That is enough. It will have to be.

She picks up the phone, and dials. A mental shift of languages.

"Uncle Enyos? It's Janna. The vampire is...dust. No, not the Slayer. Someone new..."

00000000

It had taken a long time to calm Dru down. She had been making even less sense than usual, raving about blue flames, frantically hiding her dolls under the bed. Spike eventually catches her by the wrists, and she goes limp.

"Everyone is very angry. Had their little game all set out to play, and now she's stealing the pieces." A sudden sideways smile. "Made the Slayer angry, too."

That catches Spike's attention.

"Someone's upset the Slayer? Tell me more, pet."

Drusilla shakes her head, puts her hand over her mouth, whispers.

"Sssh. Mustn't make a sound, or she'll take us, too. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...but there will be no resurrection for Daddy."

There's only one person Dru calls Daddy. Spike blinks.

"The poof's gone?"

"Slayer wanted to keep him, pet monster on a leash. But the daughter of Night took her knife and cut his thread, slash, and such pretty flames. There was going to be a dance, but all the partners have changed." Holds up her arms, and sways. "Dance with me, Spike. Like we did in Paris."

He twirls her round, thinking hard, bewildered. Someone took out Angel?

He hasn't heard about any new players in town. There's supposed to be some minor mage rolled into town, but aside from that deeply weird Halloween, he's not made a move. And then, there was that annoying little creep with the all-you-can-eat buffet of wannabe's...all he'd got out of that was a book of indecipherable ramblings, and it had taken Spike two days and a bottle of Jack to get the taint out of his mouth. Sick people tasted bad...

"Because everybody loves the girl who walks in the sun, they forgive and forget the ones he broke in the moonlight. Mother said I never should/Play with the gypsies in the wood... Daddy played with the gypsy girl, and so they gave him a nasty shiny soul for it. She weighed it in the balance, and found him wanting. Did it for all the lost little girls. _She_ doesn't forgive, won't forget any of us." Cuddles up to him. "You won't forget me, will you, Spike?"

"Not until the stars go out, my love."

Someone who could take out Peaches _and_ piss off the Slayer sounds like someone to keep an eye on.

Drusilla isn't comforted. Her Spike will want to play with the shiny apples, and that will call down the lightning. The stars used to sing to her, silver needles in her mind, show her such pretty pictures. They sing a different tune, now, and the pictures have all changed. She closes her eyes and dreams of flying.


	6. Chapter 6

Giles stands, stares down unseeing at the book in his hands. Buffy's training had been lacklustre, to say the least, but somehow, he doesn't have the heart to push her this morning. He has had an awkward meeting with Jenny, and the numbing routine of shelving helps him push back the memory of the distance in her eyes as she pulled away from him. He can't help but read it as disgust.

He feels obscurely that he has let them all down, simply by being human, a man, just as fallible as any other. All the reasons why he cannot get involved with someone, writ large, his past, his duty, his inability to express himself, to connect. He can't even offer proper comfort to Buffy in her distress, his own emotions a fractured mess. And he feels that he has failed as a Watcher, too, when his Slayer is willing to attack a human being. The workings of the female mind are a mystery to him, he has never wanted to push Buffy too hard, unsure of how to set boundaries with someone who is so very different from his training and expectations. And those expectations are a thing to trip on, his own issues with duty and destiny and control. Though still, looking back on it, her whole involvement with Angel had been...well, in hindsight, he can't think how or why he'd let that slide.

He's jerked from his musings by the library door opening. Xander, given the choice between spending his free period listening to Buffy cry on Willow, or, y'know, not, has decided that it is a good time to wander into the library and at least attempt to help Giles reshelve things from the crazy research party. Willow is doing her best to deal, but Xander doesn't really think he can offer much in the way of emotional support. Or, to be honest, want to.

So sue him, he's a teenage boy. He's delighted that Angel is dust. His crush on Buffy had been rather battered into the ground after her little Bronze bitchfest, but he still cares about her, and he's never going to like vampires. Dead bodies with a dark passenger. The thought of anyone kissing one is utterly disgusting.

(Xander has read some of the history, too. And, inescapable logic in his mind, if Angel and Angelus are two different beings, then why the hell did Angel spend a century brooding about it all? It's all very well being sorry about it, but you have to remember what the guy was being sorry _about_. And then you wanted to back the hell away from the scary monster before he snapped again. Because Xander's been around semi-functional alcoholics all his life, and his experience is one of relapses – somewhere in the back of his mind, he's always waiting for the demon to return.)

"...I mean, I'm not gonna pretend to be that sorry, Giles." Xander shrugs, puts another book back on the shelf. "I didn't like him, I didn't trust him. So someone took down another vampire, I'm gonna say yay." And maybe do a happy little dance where nobody could see him, just because.

Giles' shoulders sag.

"I can't say that I don't feel the same way." He admits, quietly. "Buffy's...uh, relationship with Angel always...it was...well, it is quite a relief to have the situation resolved, however painful it might be for her."

And without either of them having to do it, goes carefully unsaid. Xander perks up, a goofy grin on his face.

"So, do you think sending some flowers to say thank you would be too much?"

Giles can't help the snort of laughter that bursts out.

"Only if you want Ethan to do something awful to you. He's always been the possessive sort."

"Ah, okay, so no making nice with the Chaos Mage's girlfriend."

"A wise choice." Trying to move in on one of 'Acid' Rayne's birds had never been a smart idea – he'd been a nasty vindictive sod twenty years ago, and he probably hasn't changed.

"...is she another of your old friends from the land of Tweed?"

"No, actually." On the heels of that thought. "Xander, how much do you remember from Halloween?"

"Uh..." Xander looks sideways, thrown by the subject change, shuffles. "Um, most of it? It was like I could see events, but not affect them. But...I could probablystillfieldstripanM16 ..."

"Oh, dear."

"It's not like the hyena thing." Xander hurries on. "It's not even memories, exactly. More like I've got a bunch of skills in my head, now. Sort of Xander-plus." Bites his lip. "I've been running in the mornings, going through a few basic PT drills. I think I've got some CQC training in there, too. I don't want to lose this, I think it could be useful, Giles. _I _could be useful, more than just the Donut Guy, y'know?"

She'd said that, hadn't she? That the vampire had needed staking, that Willow needed training in magic, that Xander needed to feel useful.

He needs to find out what else she remembers.

Meanwhile, Xander is looking at him, the puppy who has peed on the rug, but still hopes you'll take him for a walk. When Giles had been his age, he'd already got belt ratings in two martial arts, and held the school medals for foil and epée...

"Close combat is probably not a good thing with vampires." He says, dryly. "Not without Slayer strength to back it up. But," (_..."teach him to use a sword..."_) "how would you feel about wielding a longsword?"

Xander grins, something slightly feral in it.

"Groovy."

00000000

Giles leaves the school grounds with a purpose. He's a little shaken at how grateful Xander had been for a scrap of attention. He'd question how long the dedication of a teenager would last, but – the boy had chosen the fight, shown a tenacity and loyalty to his friends. There had been an awkwardness in his movements, knowledge without the muscle memory, and he certainly needs to work on his fitness, but there had been disquieting flashes of alien competence, too. Old instincts in Giles recognise the beginnings of a truly dirty fighter – there are things he will never teach Buffy, that she doesn't need to know, her speed and strength enough. But Ripper can certainly teach the lad how to really stitch some bugger up...

He quells that thought. The last thing he needs to do is to lose his temper today. He'll be facing two magic-users, one of whom at least will be wary of him, and the other with no reason to be friendly, either.

Had he left behind an innocent to be ensnared, that evening, or something else? And what other kind of power or knowledge does she have? She clearly knows about the Slayer, and the supernatural. But how much of that is a remnant? And there's Ethan, who is another unknown quantity all by himself. What he could do with such an accomplice, unwitting or not..

That worrying thought is very much on Giles' mind when he knocks on the shop door. Ethan opens it, face set.

"I do hope that you haven't brought your homicidal little playmate with you."

"Just me. May I come in?"

A tense moment, and then Ethan steps back.

Eris, clipboard in hand, is dressed in what can only be one of Ethan's shirts, collar open, and Giles winces when he sees the bruises on her throat. She doesn't look remotely surprised to see him.

He doesn't know whether to apologise, or to demand an explanation.

"You knew, didn't you?" He asks, instead.

"That the exorcism would take them both out?" Her voice is still a little hoarse. "I trust nobody is expecting an apology."

"You were doing the silly chit's job for her." Ethan's expression of hostility melts into anxious care as he turns to her. "Are you up to talking?"

This display of solicitude makes Giles double-take. It sits strangely on someone he remembers as somewhat of a libertine. But then, he'd been a callous young toerag as well, back then. He likes to think that he has changed, so perhaps he should give Ethan the benefit of the doubt...

"I'll be fine, darling. Rupert is going to be civilised."

"He'd better be."

Ethan puts a deliberate arm round Eris. He wouldn't stand a hope in hell of kicking Ripper's arse, never has, but he has his unreconstructed moments. And Eris, judging by her expression, understands, and is a little amused. She meets Giles' eye briefly, a quick conspiratorial flicker, and then leans comfortably into Ethan's shoulder.

"So, what do you want to know?"

Giles stares at them both, and wonders where to even begin.

"Who...how...I, really, this is very awkward, but, um, who are you, and why are you with him?"

"We did actually meet at Halloween...well, you were there. It was as if fate brought us together." Turns her eyes up to Ethan with a overly sappy smile. Ethan sniggers.

"Divine intervention, surely?" He offers. Giles is less amused.

"You bloody enchanted her?"

"No, he didn't." Eris says, sharply. "I chose to come and find him. And I told you exactly who I was when we first met."

Giles makes a strangled noise.

"You're claiming to be an actual goddess?"

"Well, human avatar of."

"And what about the poor woman whose body you've...usurped?"

"This is _my_ body. Only one careful owner. As you may have noticed, once the spell ended, not everything went away. Well, I'm one of the things, and I'm not going anywhere."

She looks to be just a pretty woman with an inexplicable fondness for the dubious company of his old friend-turned-enemy, or whatever Ethan is. But Giles has seen too much to discount anything. He had rather expected to be rescuing someone from Ethan's clutches, but now he's beginning to wonder if it is Ethan who might need rescuing. Except the bloody sod is looking damnably smug about it all.

"I'm a worshipper of chaos, Ru. And as it turns out, chaos is quite fond of me, too." He smirks. "Some women can never resist a bad boy."

"Oh, stop gloating." But her tone is purely affectionate. "Yes, Ethan caught my attention, and when I took a look at what was going on here, I didn't like it, and so I took the opportunity to step in and tinker." A mild understatement for the wholesale derailment to date.

"This delightful creature announced that she was going to save my life and make my world a better place. So far, my world has become a much better place. Even if it does look like I will be taking up reputable employment." Pouts tragically at Eris. "I don't know why I can't become a pampered consort."

"Because you'd get fat and bored slumped in front of the telly, and go out and find yourself some trouble to get into."

"Sadly, probably true." He shrugs. "So, we're going to be fine, upstanding members of the business community, and a little bastion of culture."

"...You are really going to open a bookshop?"

"Well, I don't have the patience for teaching, and how else will I get to be an unwholesome influence on youthful minds?"

"This is a Hellmouth, darling. Don't make it a competition."

There's an awful impish likeness in the way they grin at each other, then at him.

"I didn't stake the vampire on a whim. That curse was on a fast track path to breaking, and it was going to get very ugly, very quickly."

"Angelus was going to come back?"

"And team up with Spike and Drusilla. And no, Buffy couldn't bring herself to stake him, not even after he killed..." Catches herself up. "So I removed the problem before it became a problem."

"You can see the future?"

"I could see _a_ future." She smiles, not entirely pleasantly. "I'm changing it. Hopefully, for the better." She touches Ethan's arm lightly as she says it, something Giles notices. His eyes narrow.

"Better for who?"

"A lot more people who could remain with their lives, souls and minds intact. And yes, Ethan is one of them. Since he enabled my presence, it seems the least I can do."

Ethan grins, but his eyes are serious.

"Listen to her, Rupert."

"Why are you doing this?" Giles is still suspicious.

"Because I can." She says, simply. "People who use innocent children as pawns really piss me off."

"And yet you associate with Ethan?"

"Cruciamentum." Watches Giles' mouth shut with a snap. "Quite."

Giles is looking at her like she's an unexploded bomb.

"Good lord...this is a, a lot to take in."

"Imagine how I felt." Ethan says. "It seems that I am fated to be the plaything of a cosmic force."

He looks indecently pleased about the fact.

"Believe it or not, I _do_ actually like him." Eris says. "Yes, I know he's a self-centred trickster with a dicey moral compass, but he's very sweet to me."

Giles rather boggles at the concept of Ethan and 'sweet'. So does Ethan.

"Couldn't you at least stress my dashing good looks and roguish charm?"

"That, too." She rolls her eyes, though she's smiling. "But we'll move swiftly on before his ego attains critical mass and consumes the Hellmouth."

"I could stand to hear a little more..." Ethan preens. Giles twitches. Eris takes pity on him.

"If it makes you happier, you could consider me...a time traveller. I'm going to be able tell you some things and people to watch out for, but I'm not going to be able to catch everything. The more things change, the less useful my knowledge is going to get, so it will be more reacting to things if I remember them happening, rather than being able to predict them."

"What are you going to do now?"

"Make Ethan take me to bed and do filthy things to me." She says, promptly, and laughs when Giles drops his glasses.

"I think I can accommodate your desires." Ethan purrs, sidling closer. "Bugger off, Ru, there's a good chap."

"I, er, yes, well..."

Eris hands his glasses over, pats his arm as she steers him towards the door.

"Rupert, go home. Get some decent sleep. Leave dealing with your ridiculous teenagers until tomorrow. Give Jenny a few days, and then talk to her properly." Smiles up at him. "Oh, one more thing. Buffy temporarily flat-lined before Xander brought her back, so there's another Slayer out there, based in Jamaica, one Kendra Young, her Watcher is Sam Zabuto. She's probably going to turn up here in the next week or so. You'll like her, she's read the Handbook."

Shuts the door with cheerful finality, leaves him staring at the clouded glass.


	7. Chapter 7

Jenny had had no destination in mind, but somehow, she is not surprised when she looks up to find herself outside this apartment block.

When she had heard the knock at her door, she had prepared herself for a confrontation with Rupert. She had not been expecting the man who stood there, though she thinks that perhaps she should have done. Her uncle Enyos came not as a family member concerned for her welfare, but as a representative of the Kalderash.

Jenny Calender works with computers, dates Rupert Giles, has a life filled with small, inconsequential everyday things. Janna of the Kalderash has a Duty. Had a Duty. Their vengeance has no target, no purpose now. There's a certain dreadful irony in the fact that the creature had saved her life, driven the demon from her into itself – perhaps that closes the circle, now. A girl of the tribe taken, a girl of the tribe saved.

She has a sudden vision of what will happen if she tells her uncle the true and full story of the last few weeks. The rituals she would be required to undergo before the tribe would consider her 'cleansed', the horror and condemnation...no, she will not subject herself to that. She will find her own way to peace and healing.

Her uncle seemed to think that the only logical course of action was for her to relinquish her job, her apartment, her _life_... She had understood, then – the elders will be trying desperately to maintain a hold over the younger members of the clan, those like her, who have a foot in both worlds. They seek to draw them back in, afraid that their heritage will be lost. And the tighter they try to hold, to confine, the more the youth slip away from them. Like ashes through their fingers. If Enyos sees vengeance as a living thing, moving through the generations, then Jenny sees it as a poison, a strangling embrace. A static, loveless thing, based on hate and hurt, it serves no purpose but itself. That one long ago night of death had killed them all, even those yet unborn. They do not move forward, do not change, mired in memory, and the world passes them by more surely with every year, as they dwindle.

She cannot condemn Rupert for the mistakes of his past, for keeping secrets – how can she? Her tribe use old magic, blood magic, soul magic. Her modern skills work alongside ancient beliefs. And her entire life has been bound to this one secret, this one summoning and binding. (She had ventured once to ask why, if they could curse the vampire, why they had not struck him down then. It was the only time her father had ever raised a hand to her.)

Now, everything has changed. There is no clear path before her. She only knows that she cannot go back.

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Giles contemplates the half-empty bottle of Scotch, then puts it back in the cupboard, shuts the door. Getting soused won't help. Makes himself tea instead, regards the mug with a bitter twist to his mouth. So very British of him.

He forces himself to face the thought of who, or what, may now be in Sunnydale. An unsettling combination of information and power, motives uncertain, but apparently benign. (The idea of Ethan as anyone's plaything is fairly horrible. The idea of him in thrall to a self-proclaimed goddess of chaos is terrifying.) He cannot regret the loss of Angel, cannot deny that this painful knowledge is necessary, that his eyes have been opened. Because he has made a discreet enquiry, and there is indeed an S.R. Zabuto stationed out in Jamaica, with cover as a lecturer in the University of the West Indies. That, and the slightly cagey attitude of his contact in London, tell him with a chilling certainty that there is indeed a reason why he has felt even more isolated these last few months. A second Slayer. Unprecedented.

That nobody has seen fit to inform him of this tell him so very much. He knows that he has never been invited to the Watcher's retreat, not privy to the higher levels of politicking in the Council. He had been truly surprised to be the one sent to the current Slayer. It had taken him less than five minutes to realise that it was not redemption, but a further refined humiliation. Just another sign of his continual failure to be what is expected of him.

He hesitates to use the word 'indoctrinated', even in his own mind, but it is certainly true that Buffy does not fit the pattern of a traditional Slayer. And, that he, even as a third generation Watcher, fails to measure up to whatever standard has been set by those who came before. Part of him still smarts about it, even whilst another part will forever strive for praise and approval that can never come. He understands every bit of Buffy's rage against her destiny, her desperate desire for normal life, for a choice. What more do they want from him? They have had his hopes, his dreams, moulded his past and determined his future, condemned and controlled, sent him to the front lines of a conflict already hamstrung. And he is more certain than ever that Travers is just sitting in his office, marking off the days on the calender until the world spins back onto its accustomed axis, and he can 'regret to inform'. There will be precious little regret there.

What he would really like, right now, is to be sitting in a pub and moaning over a pint – how many nights had he spent doing that, nights that shaded into the grey of morning, London stirring around them. Staggering through Soho, looking for a fight or a shag, in whatever order, watching the sun come up over the river, cigarettes and black coffee, coming down from the high. Sometimes, he misses the changing skies of home, because grey, damp, stinking, horrible cesspool that it is, London will always be home.

Instead, he sits alone in a room that seems too small and quiet, drinking tea that never tastes quite right. He doesn't have anyone to talk to about any of this. All those he might count as friends are back in England, really, and most of them are connected to the Council. He spends his entire life surrounded by children, and now his one inept attempt at an adult relationship has been stalled by his resurgent past.

God, his past. That is another complicated thing, all edges and regrets. Twenty years have come and gone, and he has to wonder how much the man has changed – the face was older, but he'd known that crooked grin, those eyes. Wonders how much he has changed, to the other's eyes. Is it as much as he hopes, or as little as he fears? Because he cannot tell. Just now, he doesn't feel so far removed from that angry, confused young man he had been, and that scares him. His soul is marked far deeper than ink on skin, he can't be that heedless again. Not now. He has Buffy, he has all of the children, to guide and protect. He was never trained for this. One Watcher, one Slayer, the way it was supposed to be. Except – there is another Slayer, now. Everything is changing, and nothing is sure. His mind squirrels miserably back and forth. How has it come to this? He is contemplating turning his back on decades of hard-fought achievement, because the fragile edifice is crumbling.

He flings the mug against the wall, and instantly feels ridiculous.

Of course, there is promptly a knock at the door.

Jenny, pale and drawn, blinks at him.

"Is this a bad time?"

"No...no, do..." Stops himself, steps aside. "Um."

She steps past him, stutters to a halt when confronted with the still boarded up window, turns abruptly.

"Jenny, I..." His hands hover, fall uselessly. He wants to touch her, comfort her, daren't, doesn't know how.

Her own hands clench, unclench, and then she looks up, a deep breath.

"My birth name is Janna Kalderash..."

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It is just another body-blow. Giles can't believe that he has been so blind, so gullible...

"You were sent here?" His voice sounds dull to his own ears.

"And now my duty is done. They want me to leave."

"Well, then..." He turns his back. "I...is there anything left to say?"

Exasperated, she looks at the stubborn set of his shoulders. Idiotic Englishman. Walks around to look up at him. He looks as tired as she feels. That slightly battered face has become very dear to her, and she hates to see it closed off.

"I said no."

Relief and surprise, and a touch of anger.

They pick over the pieces. Fractured trust goes both ways, but Jenny will not be a hypocrite. Rupert's reasons for hiding his past are not noble, but they are human, understandable, hurt nobody but himself. And both of them have carried secrets which were not merely their own to tell.

"I don't know exactly what it was, but the Elders were very worried, felt that the curse was weakening. His suffering was...important."

Giles shivers, a cold flicker at the edge of his mind.

"Curses can be broken. You should have warned me."

"How could I tell you? What could I say? You seemed to accept the... relationship."

His shoulders slump, and he takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes wearily.

"I've been thinking about that, I can't believe that I was so complacent. What he was, what he did...I should never have allowed him around the children."

"He was always drawn to innocence."

"I cannot ever say as much to Buffy, but I am very glad that he is gone."

"So am I." Bites her lip. "However much he may have tried to atone, I could still never forget what he was. And...when I opened my eyes...his face..." Her voice breaks, betrays her.

This time, there is no reason for him not to put his arms around her. He curses himself, because yes, to come out of the darkness, down off the high, and find yourself looking into the face of your childhood nightmare – he had thought her reticence on his account, but he has been blind.

Not a spy, but a guardian. He can live with that. Duty. Regret. Bonds of family. A Calling unasked for, resented. The complicated tangle of loyalty and pride, a heritage to live up to. Perhaps there is someone who can understand.


	8. Chapter 8

It is Xander who encounters the couple next, and in a far less dramatic fashion than prior meetings.

He's managed to get a half hour of training in with Giles, but Buffy takes precedence, and Xander is cool with that. Playing test-dummy to a still-angsting Slayer is something he doesn't envy Giles for – the career questionnaire earlier had really brought bitterness to the pity party. Xander himself is resigned to the idea that he has a shiny future in janitorial services, because even if he had the brains, he sure as heck will never have the money for college, so he gets the lack of options. He doesn't want to go home just yet - it isn't like dinner will be waiting, or anyone will ask about his day – and he's wondering if he has enough money to buy a Meal Deal (and shaking off the ghost-memory of MRE's) or if it will be a lucky dip in the freezer, when he becomes vaguely aware of someone ahead of him trying to juggle their bags, and the door of the Golden Pagoda. One of the cartons makes a desperate bid for freedom, and the resulting grab sees everything go flying in shower of wonton.

"Oh, _arse_." says an exasperated British voice. Then, "Xander?" A smile of recognition.

Xander, already automatically stooping to help gather things, stares. It takes him a moment to recognise her. Last time he'd seen her, she'd been wide-eyed, face bloodied. But it is definitely the woman he has dubbed in his mind as Chaos Lady. (Blissfully unaware of just how appropriate that is.)

"Um. Hi?"

Eris gives him a considering look.

"If I bribe you with food, will you help me carry stuff back to the shop?"

Xander's stomach growls, and he blushes. She obviously takes his mumble as assent, because he finds himself loaded up with a fresh set of cartons ("Ah, Mr Harris – 16, 43 and a double order of 7b") - he'd be embarrassed, but this place does the best General Tso's Chicken, even if the Jade Dragon over on Sepulveda has the edge for spare-ribs. He imparts this wisdom to Eris, who nods gravely.

"I shall rely upon you to be my native guide. Though I think we've toured most of the fast food joints in town by now. I am so looking forward to having my own kitchen, Ethan will happily live on burgers, but I want the chance to try out some recipes."

"You're staying here?"

"We're opening a bookstore."

Xander eyes her in alarm.

"And are the books gonna come alive and suck people into them?"

"Hopefully not." She rolls her eyes. "I'm going to be spending a lot of my time apologising for that wretched man, aren't I?" Thinks a moment. "Hmm, better not mention the people-eating books in front of him, actually, I don't want him getting ideas."

"Oh, great."

Eris reassures him.

"I won't let him turn evil, that would be terribly dull, and Rupert would want to thump him again." Tilts a smile. "Which reminds me, you got to beat up your nemesis, I understand?"

"Oh, yeah." Diverted, Xander allows a blissful grin to cross his face. "Another minute, and I've have gotten Spike, too."

"Shame, that. Better luck next time."

"Next time?" Alarm.

"Facing down a vampire with superior fire-power, is all I meant. You need to drink less coffee, kiddo." But she grins at him, and Xander can't help grinning back.

00000000

The store looks totally different to the last view Xander had of it. Clean, with a faint smell of fresh paint and new wood, there are now tall bookcases along the walls, some partially filled. The till is now to one side of the door, and the other side has a couple of small couches and a low table. Ethan is slouched there, looking rather less urbane than usual, in jeans and rolled shirt-sleeves. He looks slightly surprised when Eris breezes through the door with Xander at her heels, but simply raises a languid arm, mug in hand.

"Hello again. Can we tempt you to a civilised beverage?"

"Does coffee really count?"

"Tchah, Colonials." But Ethan grins back. "Unlike the impression you may have gained from dear Rupert, we do not all run on tea and tweed."

"Says the man who needs two cups of tea to even function in the morning." Eris drops a kiss on his forehead in passing. "But yes, tweed would not suit you."

00000000

Ethan watches Eris, waving her hands and laughing as she outlines their plans to Xander, and has a moment of complete disorientation. He's not supposed to be having this sort of life.

When Ethan had headed for California, he'd never envisioned this sort of thing. He'd thought sunshine, beaches, pretty women to cater to his every whim.

Well, he's got the sunshine, and there is a beach within easy driving distance. He even has the pretty woman, though expecting her to cater to his whims would be an exercise in futility. The gainful employment, the suburban home, that had been unexpected. He's gone from being a solitary mage for hire, to a prospective member of the business community. He's...respectable.

Ethan's mental image of himself has always been that of a free spirit, a charming rogue who wandered the world at will, without ties or responsibilities. Somehow, putting up curtains had never quite figured into that picture. But Eris has been quite firm, if she is going to be in Sunnydale for a while, she is going to live somewhere other than a motel room. Luckily, property is cheap and plentiful, and a small house in a quiet cul-de-sac has just acquired new tenants. He's been made to purchase kitchenware. Yardwork looms on the mental horizon.

The one consolation is that it is going to drive Ripper crazy. Threatening to run him out of town when he'd been a (lone) vagrant sorcerer was one thing, but there is no recourse against this situation. The bookshop is simply that, a bookshop. He is doing nothing objectionable, possibly for the first time in his existence. And really, he's spent enough time in cold and lonely motel rooms, eating take out and watching pay per view. Perhaps owning a set of saucepans is not going to be such a dreadful thing.

He contemplates his future. It's the first time in years that he has even considered that he might have one. He's never been given to long-term planning, never had the luxury, moving from job to job. He's never been one to look back, either, a creature of the now. Somehow, in a mere couple of weeks, this woman has insinuated herself into his life, upended it completely. He's bewildered, dizzy, unsure of what will happen next, towed along in her wake.

He's not sure what he is to her, diversion, amusement, accomplice, but he's scaring himself to death with the hope that he's - important to her. Not just because he's useful in her plans. And he wonders when he got to be so pathetic. (He thinks it was probably about the time he found himself blinking up at her, as she gently wiped blood from his face and scolded him.)

Ethan sighs, sags, admits defeat. He'd thought he was too cynical, too wary to fall into this trap. But no, he's helplessly in... _something_, with Eris. Bugger.

00000000

Xander can't quite believe that he is sitting and making nice with the guy who nearly got them killed at Halloween. (Except – he got to punch out Larry, and now, he's got stuff in his head that makes him better prepared. And, heck, if Buffy hadn't chosen that dress to try and impress tall, dark and broody...) If he'd known Ethan better, he'd have been a bit less sanguine about accepting food and drink from him, but the mage is too exhausted by physical labour to cause mischief.

The man is the same age as Giles, but far looser, catches his pop culture references and slings them right back. This forces Xander to remember that Giles had once been something other than the stuffy librarian, wonder what he'd been like at Xander's age. Being him, he asks. Ethan, being Ethan, replies.

"Well, I didn't know Ru until a few years later. He'd started wearing leather by then..."

Xander grins.

"Played guitar, yeah?" Off Ethan's startled look. "I, er, saw a photo."

"Nearly everyone we knew was in a band. All you needed were three chords, ripped jeans, and the ability to sneer." Ethan lifts the corner of his lip to demonstrate, a disturbingly Spike-like expression. "He used to tell girls he was a founder member of Pink Floyd. The dim ones believed it."

"If you're going to tell tales, you should wait and do it when you can enjoy Rupert's face." Eris grins at him. "_You_ used to tell them that you worked for David Bailey, anyway."

"What is this 'shame' that you speak of?" Ethan says cheerfully, taking more rice. "We were young and handsome, and we had our lives before us."

"What he means is that they all hung out in a horrible old house, trying to pick up girls, who usually ran screaming when they saw the state of the kitchen." Eris points a chopstick.

"I was at art college, that practically obligated me to be a drug-addled Bohemian with authority issues and no useful life skills." Leans forward, with the air of one imparting great wisdom. "Opting for banking may bring you security, but you'll get invited to less parties."

"Hey, I suspect I'm going to turn out to be cut out for the thrilling world of the fast food service industry." Xander lifts a shoulder in response to the raised eyebrows. "It's Career Week."

"You can always come and be our stock boy." Eris grins, then blinks. She slaps her forehead. "Oh, sod it. Xander, have you got Rupert's number? I just realised, there's a good chance that the Order of Taraka are on their way here."

Ethan chokes.

"What?"

"Uh..." Xander obediently picks up the phone and dials, holds out the receiver to Eris. Ethan is still mopping himself up. "And this Order of the Teriyaki is bad, because?..."

"Assassins. Come in a variety of species, have the whole 'Terminator' deal going on." The man's eyes are wide and a bit wild. "Eris, my sweet, how exactly did you forget something like that?"

"Only human, now, darling, and first time round, Buffy met the first one because she was on a date with Angel. Since he's now absent, events are proceeding a bit differently... Rupert? Hi, it's Eris. Just a heads up..."

Xander hears Mount Giles erupt – he quite obviously knows about these assassin guys. Eris cuts through the outrage, cut glass tones that cause all her listeners' spines to straighten, atavistic masculine fear.

"_As I was just explaining_ to Ethan and Xander, this is a point of divergence. The initial encounter occurred when Buffy skipped out to go on a date with Angel...Xander is perfectly fine, though I think he's contemplating arm-wrestling Ethan for the last spring roll...Focus, Rupert. Prospective assassination threat to your Slayer first, and then we'll discuss the use of sweet and sour pork as a vile instrument of corruption...Events may have gone completely off course, it depends, did you lose a book to a random vampire a few weeks ago?... Right, Du Lac manuscript, it's useless without the cipher, there is, or was, a cross buried in the Du Lac crypt...ah, well, yes, then you probably do have a trio of nasties converging..." Her voice sharpens again, eyes narrowing. "I am saving you quite a lot of research here. This is not _my_ job." The agitated buzz grows more conciliatory. "...Thank you. Obviously, it's a diversion, they aren't big hitters, just cannon fodder. Spike's attempting to heal Drusilla. If you dust him, then the Order will drop the contract, no client to pay them...Well, they're going to be buggered anyway. The ritual required the presence of the sire...oh, no, it got interrupted when Buffy dropped a blazing church organ on them. Didn't stop them for long, but it had a certain Acme charm to it..."

"Okay, what the hell?" Xander's own eyes are basically bugging out by now.

"I'll let Eris explain." Ethan is still rattled, himself. He has never had dealings with the Order, but he had once failed to collect a paycheck from someone who most unfortunately had.

They listen to a very concise description of who to watch out for, and then Eris is sweeping towards the front door, Xander right on her heels.

"One of them took out Buffy's neighbour in order to get a surveillance post, so I hope I remembered in time." She looks grim and a bit stricken.

"You had nothing to do with unleashing the Order." Ethan gives her a swift one-armed hug. Part of him wants to dig his heels in, because rushing out after assassins is a White Hat thing to do, and even on his best day, he's a kind of dirty grey, but the boy is obviously determined, and Ru will not be happy if one of his charges gets hurt. (He refuses to consider that he might want to look heroic in Eris' eyes, because that's ridiculous.) "I have the car-keys."

"I can guide you." Xander doesn't want to be left out of things. "Now, I repeat, what the hell?"

"I'm what happens when magicians don't think their spells through properly." Eris says. "You got some nifty combat skills, Ethan got me."

Xander blinks at her, then turns to look at Ethan, wide-eyed. Ethan shrugs.

"It's true."

"Okay, most people just get candy." Xander's mouth is operating independently of his brain again. Ethan just smirks.

"Ah, but my Eris is so much sweeter."

Eris mimes being sick, and grins crookedly at Xander.

"He's such a smooth talker, how could I resist him?"

"So, you're a Seer?"

"I'm not nuttier than squirrel poo, thank you very much. It's more as if I can, well, remember events. Think time travel, rather than crystal ball. I did explain it all to Rupert."

As another example of Hellmouth weirdness, this is a nicer example than most. Magic lady with knowledge of the future - who doesn't want to kill him, eat him or mate with him, or any combination thereof, so Xander thinks he's ahead of the game there – and she detests vampires, which puts another tick in the 'yay' column. Also, she's fed him, and now they are off to save Buffy from a guy made of killer bugs.

Just another typical evening in Sunnydale, then.

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Ethan can conjure small fireballs. He mostly uses them to light cigarettes. But combined with the can of Raid that Xander is holding, they make an effective makeshift flamethrower. Norman Pfister winds up as a pile of writhing, squealing, flaming goop on the sidewalk before he even reaches the Kalish house.

"You gotta teach me that trick." Xander pants, as they stamp on the last remnants.

"And have Ru thump me for corrupting your young mind? I think not."

"Giles doesn't think I have a mind to corrupt."

"He can be a little blinkered on occasion." Ethan regards the bottom of his shoe. "I'm going to have to burn these. This is thoroughly disgusting."

"At least vampires just turn into dust. Demons kinda...squelch. I've seen green goo, blue goo, brown goo, orange goo - there was even a purple mould thing once."

"I get the idea."

Xander uses a twig to lift the assassin's ring out of the slurry, Ethan wraps it in a handkerchief. He looks up and down the peaceful street.

"I must say, I'd heard about 'Sunnydale Syndrome', but really, we set fire to a bloke who dissolved into maggots, and then danced on the ashes, and nobody has come out to see what's going on?"

"This is a very weird town." Xander grins at him. "Still want to live here?"

Ethan rolls an eloquent eye towards the car, tries not to look fond and fatuous.

"I don't think I have a choice."

Eris, who hadn't even had a chance to get out of the car, gives a little finger-wave back. They stroll (slightly stickily) back towards the vehicle.

"...are you sure you can't teach me that fireball trick?"

Ethan considers. The boy is a liability around magic, apparently, and it will almost certainly annoy Rupert. It has the potential to be a very, very bad idea indeed.

"...How's your Latin?"

Like _that_ has ever stopped him.


	9. Chapter 9

Eris watches them swagger back to the car, and grins, proud and fond. She'd only had to point out of the window, and say, "Him, there, bloke with the carry-case", before they'd both leapt into action. A couple of decades of hard-boiled self-reliance mean that Ethan is never going to be an altruist – his reflexes don't work that way - but he is not exactly the hardened monster of depravity he thinks he is. He'd been scrambling out of that car after Xander, swearing about idiot children, before she'd even got her seatbelt undone.

He'd been prepared to sacrifice Buffy, to save himself, to save Rupert, she knows that – she also knows that Ethan has a better idea than most of what actually makes a Slayer, and that the resulting demonic cage-fight could have been epic. Dusting the vampire had worked out much easier, though, because that blade was going to do damage whoever it went into, and she's not sure they could ever have got past 'stabbing a human'. This time, she hasn't even had to find a knife. And, bless them, it's a good bonding experience.

Xander himself had apparently just been going for a blast of bug-spray to the eyeballs, which wouldn't do anyone any good, regardless of species, when the guy fell into a shower of gross right in front of them. Ethan promptly claims that his incendiary response was the result of finely honed magecraft, rather than instinctive panic. There was also a mutual agreement that the yelps of surprise uttered had _not_ been girly shrieks, on either part.

"Screams of courage?" Eris offers, cheerfully.

"You're not the one with second-hand assassin all over your shoes." Ethan grumbles.

"But the whole fwoosh thing was majorly cool." Xander wiggles his fingers. "I definitely wanna learn that one."

"Oh?" Eris looks from the eager grinning teen to the slightly shifty mage.

"I, er, may have given in to pressure to pass some knowledge along..."

"C'mon, Mr E, I'll make a great apprentice."

"Mr E." Ethan considers, nods. "I can live with that." Frowns slightly. "Why exactly were you carrying around insect repellent, anyway?"

Xander mumbles something about 'biology' and 'date from hell', which leaves Ethan still confused and Eris smirking. They tip him out at the school, heading for the library and a late debriefing. Eris declines firmly to set foot in Buffy's 'territory' - "I rather like my larynx in the shape it is in, thank you" - and maintains that if Rupert wants any further information, he can come and ask for it nicely, in the morning.

"I meant it about the stockboy job." She grins up at Xander as she gets into the front seat of the car. "We might end up paying you in pizza for the first week or so, but feel free to drop by."

"And yes, we can get the other little project underway." Ethan sighs, as those puppy eyes turn on him.

"Deal!" And Xander practically skips up the steps to the school. Ethan blinks, wonders what he's getting himself into. So does Eris.

"You're really going to teach Xander magic?" She grins at him. "And exactly how hard is Rupert going to punch you in the face for that?"

"That was a consideration, believe me. But..." Ethan shrugs. "I rather like the boy, and you told me that he's already wrecked a prophecy. My kind of person."

"Yeah, he's a good kid, and he deserves better."

All of Ethan's instincts flare up.

"Oh?" He says, warily.

"Let's just say that you've got more in common than just being chaos magnets."

Ethan looks back at the Library, and something cold moves behind his eyes.

"Really."

"Working on it." She gives him a sad little smile. "Let's go home."

00000000

"So," Giles looks around the table, "to sum up, we have a group of assassins upon Buffy's trail."

Xander drops the ring onto the library table with a flourish.

"Eh, we're one down already." he says, with a fair degree of nonchalance. He wonders if Giles is going to lay an egg with that amount of clucking. What with Buffy scolding, and Willow babbling, it takes a moment before he can explain himself, that he hadn't exactly meant to go leaping into things, it just sort of happened.

"You thought it would be a good idea to confront a killer?"

"Well, we only got as far as 'Hey, assassin guy' before he developed a bad case of maggot-face. I learnt some exciting new British swearwords. And then me and Ethan squished him..."

"Ethan?" Buffy snaps. "You were with him?" Her eyes narrow further. "_Them_?"

"Ms Nixon is the one who knew about the guy." Xander says, a bit unwisely. "She pointed him out."

Buffy, her face a mask of anger, pushes stiffly back from the table.

"I don't want you to have anything to do with them." She spits. "Tell him, Giles."

"Buffy..." Sigh, huff, clean glasses. "If Ms Nixon had not told us about this threat, the first we would have known about it would have been an all-out attack upon you."

"How d'you know they aren't responsible for it?"

"Um, because we clobbered one of them, and have advance intel on the others?" Xander points out. "First thing Ms Nixon did when she remembered was to call Giles."

"Remembered?" Willow looks confused. "But you said they weren't responsible..."

"She's got a load of memories from the future, or something, where the Halloween spell kinda backfired. She said Giles knows."

"Er, yes." It will do for now. "So far, I have had no reason to doubt the accuracy of her information."

They all look at the innocuous little signet ring.

"She still killed Angel." Buffy slumps angrily back into her chair. "I'm never gonna forgive her for that."

"Since she's doing her best to keep you alive, that's kinda ungrateful, there, Buff." But then, Buffy's idea of 'thanking' him had been to use him as a public stripper-pole, so...

"Regardless..." Giles recalls them, before the argument starts round again. "There are potentially two more assassins out there."

"Why don't we just send your new friends after them, too?"

He takes a breath at Buffy's tone, but Xander steps in.

"One of them is a whole heap of one-eyed nasty who could pull a man's spine out with his bare hands, and the other is a fake cop-lady, but they are also nominally human, so we're gonna have to finesse past 'me slay now'. Plug-ugly is an up-close-and-personal kind of guy. It's the other that's a worry. She's planning to pull a gun on you in the middle of the Careers Fair."

Everyone sobers. Slayers heal fast, but they are decidedly not bullet-proof. Buffy gets a weird look on her face.

"So that thing about me being suited for the Police is just to set me up?"

"It means we know where one of 'em is going to be." They all exchange looks.

"Ambush." comes the chorus.

"Ms Nixon put a whammy on the ring, says it will blip when the other rings get near it."

"Proximity charm, using the Law of Contagion. Clever."

"She says she mostly uses it for earrings and cufflinks." Xander grins. "Handy if you misplace your keys, too, I guess."

00000000

Willow doesn't get angry, often. She's been taught to negotiate, to repress, appropriate behaviour, and she's always surprised when the tide rises. She's good at guilt, though.

Buffy had been going on about how nobody else understood what it was like to lose someone you loved like that, and something in Willow had snapped, very quietly. Because everyone gets the deal that she and Xander have been best friends forever, but they had been a trio long before they were a pair, and nobody ever mentions Jesse anymore, just another one of the lost. And yeah, she'd never had boy-girl feelings for Jesse, the goof, with his gigantic Cordy-crush – and watching Xander try to be twice as loud, twice as funny, to fill that void beside them that even Buffy cannot fill, hurts - but he'd been there, a decade of small everyday things to pile beside a scant year of stolen kisses and heart-wrenching drama. (And whilst part of her sighs in a dewy-eyed way about the romance of it all, a much more realistic part wonders if so much of the attraction hadn't been that star-crossed angsty secret thing, with the brooding and the cryptic.) And Willow feels like she's betraying her first real girl friend, by thinking these things, but she does.

Since Halloween, she's found herself touching things more. She's never had it as bad as Marci Ross, never sunk herself so far into the background that she vanished away, but she can't hide under a sheet forever. Being unable to touch the world, to have life pass by her and through her, had been a salutary shock. And all Buffy's clinging onto the might-have-beens of something that couldn't go anywhere, because Angel was breathless drama and longing glances, but he'd never be sharing ice-cream on a hot day, or Snoopy dances at Christmas, or ambling through the Mall with grandiose plans for a road-trip – Buffy had been given back her life once, but she doesn't seem to want to actually _live_ it, for all her talk of 'normal'.

And - Buffy-without-Angel is a worrying thing, because, well, Xander. And there isn't any way Willow can talk to her about how someone managed to dust a vampire from a distance, considering, which would be really cool if anyone can do it, and she doesn't want to talk with Giles just yet, because he's obviously still a bit wigged out, and the same definitely goes for Ms Calender. The only other person around had been Cordelia, which is just a big no forever, so she really needs Xander about now. Pounces at him when he comes out through the library doors.

"Xander, what were you doing?"

"I, uh, eating take-out with Team Chaos?"

Willow's eyes are huge.

"But I thought we didn't like the creepy people...do we?"

"Hey, I got to beat up on Larry, so I think we're quits on the costume thing. And Ms Nixon whacked the demon, so that makes her good people."

"She got Angel, too."

"So she took out a demon wearing a creepy vampire overcoat. Kind of a two for one deal." For a brief moment, Xander stops looking goofy, his face older, harder. "I'm not gonna cry about it, Wills. Ms Calender is still alive, and Eyghon won't be coming after Giles again."

"I guess..." Drags her feet, and then the words burst out. "Buffy still blames me, too, because I came up with the idea of having it jump into Angel, what with him being a dead body and all...and, oh, that's kinda nasty when you think about it..."

"...Trust me, I've been trying not to for a long time..."

"...But he was supposed to win the fight and kill the other demon, only Ms Nixon stabbed him first."

"No plan survives first contact with the enemy." Xander gives her a quick one-armed hug. "You couldn't know that she was gonna go all Slayer Lite, that's not your fault."

Privately, he thinks that Ms Nixon had known exactly what she was doing. Hindsight, he's replayed the scene in his mind, and he remembers her intent face, tracking the moment the demon jumped. But he's still not seeing a problem – no more Deadboy, no more bodyjacking demon. Also, Mr E is gonna teach him some sorcery to go with the sword.

00000000

Sunnydale PD are corrupt and useless, but they are quick enough to take down someone impersonating an officer, especially one about to take a loaded gun into a school. Most members of the public can be ignored when they phone in tip-offs, but Councilman Chase's daughter is not one of them.

There is one unexpected outcome from the takedown in the parking lot. Principal Snyder, scurrying forth to question the sudden influx of uniforms, panics, and as luck would have it, he jumps the wrong (right) way, and one of the assassin's bullets scores across his arm. From zero to hero, he finds himself praised as a courageous man putting himself between his students and harm.

00000000

The Mayor waves the Chief of Police out of his office, but his mask of jovial bonhomie drops like a stone as soon as the door closes. He regards the ring sitting on his desk. He is not happy about assassins he hasn't hired in his town – the Slayer is useful for keeping the minor irritations under control, after all. It takes a lot of delicate negotiation to keep various elements at bay, pacts and wards and politicking, the military-industrial complex stalled at the edge of the town, other major players diverted. (There's a certain law firm would love to set up a branch office...) And now, someone isn't playing by the rules, which, gosh darn it, is just plain rude.

00000000

Giles watches Buffy skate. She looks brighter, happier, this evening, the teenage girl that she should have been. But life is rarely fair, or kind. He sighs. He certainly isn't going to tell her that the rather surprising suggestion about this outing had come via Xander from Eris, has managed to sell it as a training exercise. Willow, bless her heart, lacks coordination, edging along the rinkside, ungainly but determined. Xander flails along like a giraffe on roller-skates, goofing around to make the girls laugh, which is enough to distract them from the fact that Giles has slipped out of the side door. Under his shirt, there is a sudden warmth against his chest, like a second heartbeat. The proximity charm on the ring is working well.

Just as Xander had described him – a big, ugly one-eyed heap of nasty. And all of Giles' misgivings fall away, in a wave of grim determination.

His loyalty is not to 'The Slayer', or to the Council. It is to Buffy. Giles has heard of fighting fair. He's not having any of it. So the first bolt from the crossbow simply takes the hulking man through the throat.

(Buffy lands from a triple axle, cocks her head.

"Did you hear something?"

"No." says Willow, with perfect honesty, and sits down abruptly on the ice.)

He's slightly disturbed at how little remorse he feels, nothing but relief when he takes the ring off one meaty and rapidly cooling hand. The dark reality of Sunnydale is that disposing of the body is as simple as leaving it there.

His heart nearly stops when a pretty dark-skinned girl ghosts out of the shadows, but he registers the stake in her hand even as he brings the heavy crucifix up. (Effective as a cosh, in a pinch.)

"Miss...Kendra? I'm Rupert Giles, Watcher's Council." And it almost feels like a lie.

00000000

Later, too far the wrong side of midnight, Giles stares up at his bedroom ceiling, and wonders what his life is.

Introducing the Slayers had been somewhat akin to putting two strange cats in a room. There had been no claws or spitting, true, but the air had been charged with potential violence.

Kendra was settled on Jenny's pull-out couch, and tomorrow, they would have a full meeting to work out the what and why.

She was very young, younger than Buffy, for all her self-possession. Large-eyed and solemnly respectful, the Council's idea of a perfect Slayer, she obeyed orders, didn't question. After the contentious passages with Buffy, it should have been a relief. Somehow, it wasn't. The matter-of-fact report of her solo travel, method and reason, makes him want to break something. What really scares him, is that his first impulse is to call up Ethan. Whether for a fight, or a drink, or somewhere in between, he's not completely sure.

He killed a man tonight. And there was a terrible clarity in the act.

00000000

Spike stands in the wreckage of the room, smashed tv screens flickering around him. He's gone on a rampage. The 'Three Strikes' package has failed, and the Order of Taraka have kept his deposit. And now, Dalton has just finished translating the manuscript. A bit difficult to cook up a cure when you are missing the main ingredient.

"Plan B. We find that mage. If he can power down the Slayer once, he can do it again."

Drusilla can feel the twisted threads of time knotting themselves together again, but the shape they make looks very like a noose. Her sweet William will hang them both from the yardarm of his ambition. She whimpers quietly, and hugs Miss Edith.


End file.
